


Opposites Attract

by LuxKen27



Series: The Best Friends You'll Ever Have [15]
Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin
Genre: Comedy, Community: babysitters100, F/M, FIFA World Cup 2014, Friendship, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2217633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxKen27/pseuds/LuxKen27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abby and Logan have always had their differences…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opposites Attract

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the royal blue prompt for my 2014 Summer Mini Challenge table. Further author’s notes can be found [here](http://luxken27.dreamwidth.org/750035.html).
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** The _Baby-sitters Club_ concept, storyline, and characters are © 1986 – 2000/2010 Ann M. Martin/Scholastic Corporation. No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.

~*~

Logan Bruno snorted. “You’re not really going in there dressed like that, are you?”

Abby Stevenson stopped in her tracks just outside the door to the bar and glanced down at herself. She was wearing a black- and crimson-striped jersey over her jeans, a white Adidas football scarf emblazoned with three black stars around her neck, and had a gold, black, and red fake-flower crown resting atop her unruly brown curls. She grinned at her erstwhile companion. “At least _I’m_ wearing the right kit,” she returned, pinching Logan’s royal blue-covered shoulder. “And you call yourself a super-fan!”

“Uh, no, that’d be you, Ms. Deutschland,” Logan quipped, shrugging away her teasing fingers. He brushed at the shoulder of his USA away jersey. “You think you won’t be eviscerated, walking into a home crowd dressed like the enemy?”

“Oh, please,” Abby responded with a dismissive wave. She dug into the front pocket of her jeans, producing a crumpled white slip of paper. “Jurgen Klinsmann was German first, let’s not forget!”

Logan grabbed for the paper, his expression turning incredulous. “You actually used this?” he choked out. “And your boss _bought_ it?!”

Abby’s smile was triumphant as she reclaimed her signed excuse from work, which had originally been [tweeted out by Klinsmann](https://twitter.com/J_Klinsmann/status/481940134921641984) in a bid to amass hundreds of thousands of USA supporters for the last group game of the 2014 World Cup. “My boss is German – _and_ has a sense of humor,” she informed him, stuffing the excuse back into her pocket. “Are we going in, or what?”

Logan could only shake his head as he followed her inside the bar. It was only mid-afternoon, but the place was already packed out with raucous American supporters. TV screens across the open space blasted the ESPN simulcast, live from Brazil. The college frat boys congregated at the front of the room started a rousing chant of “USA! USA! USA!” when the American team was shown warming up on the pitch.

Abby confidently pushed through the crowd, spotting and claiming a table close to one of the flat screen TVs. She signaled for the waiter, and a harried-looking young man materialized from the chaos of the crowd.

“What’ll it be?” he asked, expertly elbowing aside a couple of other patrons still on the lookout for a table.

“Budweiser,” Logan said, high-fiving a random fellow fan as he settled into his seat.

“Heineken for me,” Abby ordered, adjusting her flower crown.

Logan feigned grave shock. “Heineken?” he gasped with exaggerated surprise. “Not a _German_ beer?”

Abby gave him a dubious look. “Dude, we’re sitting in an Irish-style pub in fucking Hartford, CT,” she replied. “Let’s not get all up in arms about authenticity.” She turned back to the TV. “Shut _up_ , Alexi Lalas!” she cried, whipping off her Germany national team scarf and waving it over her head.

The majority of her fellow patrons pelted her with balled-up napkins, but she did receive a couple of whistles in agreement.

“Feeling brave, are you, Stevenson?” Logan mused when their beers were served. He took a sip of his before setting it down on a gaudy shamrock- adorned coaster.

Abby shrugged. “I think you might be the brave one, Bruno,” she noted cheerfully, gesturing to the sea of red, white, and blue that surrounded them. “You sure you wanna be seen with a Germany supporter in this crowd?”

He smiled, grabbing her hand and bestowing a gallant kiss upon it. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replied grandly.

She laughed. “Better be glad Kristy’s not here to see this,” she teased.

Logan laughed off her response, but inwardly, he cringed. Kristy Thomas had never forgiven him for breaking up with her best friend – for good – after their graduation from high school. She didn’t exactly hold a grudge anymore – they weren’t very close, all these years later – but she rarely spared him her sharp tongue, even now.

Their ten-year high school reunion had been… _interesting_ , to say the least.

His thoughts didn’t linger there for long, however, as the majority of the crowd started chanting the American Outlaws’ patented cheer in the lead-up to the teams walking out of the tunnel. One of the frat boys sitting at the bar climbed up onto his stool.

“I BELIEVE!” he bellowed, waving his arms.

“I BELIEVE!” his fellow fans responded.

“I BELIEVE!” he cried out again.

“I BELIEVE!” the crowd echoed.

“I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN!” he cheered.

“I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN!” the crowd chanted, over and over again. Everyone rumbled to their feet, jumping up and down, screaming with pure, fan-fed excitement as the two national teams trotted out onto the pitch in the rain.

“You’re gonna have to win dirty,” Abby joked, “in order to succeed in a monsoon.”

The field in Recife was totally saturated after nearly twenty-four hours of continuous rainfall. The rain had lightened up, but hadn’t stopped, and both teams were almost instantly drenched. They pushed ahead, of course, going through the motions of anthem-singing, handshakes, and the exchange of pennants by the captains. The teams lined up in their respective formations on the field, and the crowd at the bar settled in for a good game.

Logan and Abby kept each other in stitches with their running commentary. They started to attract the attention of some of the fans near their table, especially when they engaged in a fierce debate about the starting XIs, and the ongoing theme of star players vs complete teams.

“Tell me how many players you can name from the US team, off the top of your head,” Abby challenged.

“Tim Howard, Clint Dempsey, Michael Bradley, Demarcus Beasley – ” Logan started to tick the players off on his fingers.

“Okay, now how about the Germans?” she broke in.

Logan blanked out for a moment. “Um, Schweinsteiger?” he tried.

Abby waved her arms in the air. “My point, exactly,” she declared. 

A nearby fan wrinkled her nose. “How could you forget that ugly little troll Mueller?” she mused. She glanced at the tactical lineups on her phone. “He’s the striker!” she added proudly.

Logan rolled his eyes. “What, exactly, is your point?” he questioned, ignoring this input by the peanut gallery. “That the machine is an efficient one? Come on, that’s the most obvious Germany joke that can be made – I can’t believe _you_ went there.”

Abby narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t,” she replied crisply. “My point was that the German team is exactly that – a team. If the ‘ugly little troll Mueller’” – she nodded towards the other fan – “is taken down, he can be easily replaced in the lineup. None of this total panicking like when Altidore went down in Game 1 for the US.”

“Be fair,” Logan argued. “Dempsey also broke his nose in that game.”

“And it was a massive blow for the team,” Abby shot back. “Luckily for the US, Dempsey scored before breaking his friggin’ nose, and they managed to scrape out that win.”

“Dempsey wasn’t the only one who scored in that game,” Logan was quick to remind her. “We won it 2-1, don’t forget!”

“And how many people in this very bar had heart attacks when John Brooks was put into that game?” she responded. “Suddenly the kid scores, and he’s a superstar!”

“He dreamt that he’d score that goal,” another side-long fan put in, briefly turning away from the rather dull action on screen. “And then he did.”

“Must’ve been destiny,” Abby intoned, waving to the waiter for another round of drinks. “What else has he done? Do you even know what club team he plays for?”

“Simmer down, Stevenson,” Logan broke in. “Just be glad soccer’s getting this sort of coverage at all, that you can even sit in a bar in fucking Hartford, CT, and argue with random strangers about the starting XI.”

Abby took a long swig of her beer. “Yeah, okay, it _is_ pretty awesome that so many people are excited about the World Cup,” she conceded, “and in spite of the Alexi Lalas obnoxiousness factor, ESPN’s coverage has been pretty decent. Even if I _do_ have to DVR the other games,” she added under her breath.

“But you don’t have to watch ’em alone,” Logan reminded her, “even if it’s not the same as taking on all comers at the local Irish-style pub.”

Abby pouted. “Stop placating me, Bruno,” she mumbled. “You’re no fun!”

A cheer went up as the USA came close to scoring, and the two momentarily lost their captive audience. “It’s just a game, Stevenson,” Logan said, patting her hand. “Don’t make it your life.”

She shrugged again, drawing circles on the table with the bottom of her beer bottle. “This is more than just a game, actually,” she said, far more calmly. “This is the most interesting final group-stage game, and not just because it’s America’s final group-stage game. This is Germany vs Germany-lite, and will be a true testament to how far the US has come under Klinsmann in these last three years.” Her expression was soft as she traced the watery rings on the tabletop with her fingers.

Logan waited for her next wisecrack – _“After all, it’s amazing how far the team can get with five Germans on it!”_ or the like – but it didn’t come. He shot a concerned look in her direction, feeling a bit jarred by her suddenly somber expression. “You okay there, Stevenson?”

Her shoulders dropped in a sheepish half-shrug. “I was just thinking, it’s nice to be able to talk to someone about this, and have them know exactly what I mean,” she mused. “I used to bore my sister to death when I got on my soccer soapbox, and I think Kristy just humored me.” She smiled at Logan. “But you like to argue with me. Even though, you know, you’re totally wrong most of the time.”

He grinned back at her. “Just counting on you to keep me straight, Stevenson – and to school me in the ways of the international game.”

Another roar rumbled through the crowd, most of the nearby fans shooting to their feet, only to groan and sink back into their seats. Abby and Logan looked back at the replay on the TV, of Jermaine Jones’s absolute duck on one of his rare scoring opportunities. The play was shown in slow-motion from several different angles, and a murmur of appreciation rippled through the female portion of the crowd.

Abby grinned, waving her Germany scarf again. “Nice ass!” she crowed as the final replay, from the perspective behind the German goalkeeper, was shown.

“The German team is _so_ good-looking,” sighed one of the nearby onlookers.

“And talented,” Abby jumped in, sensing a chance to reel in some neutrals and make it a little less one-sided. “A huge chunk of this team won the under-21s a couple of years ago.”

The girls just looked confused as they exchanged a long look, before deciding to ignore her and turn their attention back to the screen.

A couple of dudes behind them, however, had picked up on the thread of conversation. “Isn’t there also, like, a huge contingent of them playing at Bayern Munich?” one of them asked.

Abby nodded excitedly. “Yeah, and that’s probably why the team plays as well as it does together,” she commented. “It helps that the core of the team plays their club football together during the season, and most of the other players are in the German league with them, so they’re all on the same schedule.”

“Bayern Munich your favorite team?” one of them asked.

“Nah,” Abby replied with a modest shrug. “Actually, believe it or not, I prefer cheering for the underdogs instead.”

“Only in club football, obviously,” Logan put in with a grin.

“What’s your pleasure, then, sweetcheeks?” one of the guys asked.

“I like Schalke,” Abby told them, only to earn blank stares in response. “The royal blues.”

More blank stares.

“You know, the team with the _other_ Boateng brother on it?” she tried. She cleared her throat. “Um, never mind.”

The German goalkeeper swept out of his goal, joining the defensive line to play the ball just beyond the eighteen-yard box. This darting movement earned mention from the commentators, as well as the ladies of the crowd who had so admired his backside during the Jermaine Jones replays.

“He’s going to get caught out one of these days,” one of the guys commented.

“But the German defensive line plays so high that it forces him to play like that,” his friend observed.

“Kinda nice, though, isn’t it?” Abby said, drawing their attention. “Gives the goalkeeper something to do besides sit and twiddle his thumbs.”

The other fans didn’t appreciate her horning in on their conversation. “You just think he’s hot,” one of them said with a dismissive wave.

“Actually, I think he’s really damn good at his job,” Abby returned archly. “The defensive line has to stick together, and having a goalie who’s willing to play on the field helps tremendously, especially when it comes to launching the counterattack.”

“What do _you_ know?” his companion sneered.

Abby shot out of her seat. “I played centreback for four years on the varsity squad at UNC,” she informed them. “Was named captain of the squad my sophomore year, _and_ had the chance to train with the national team.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And as you may know, the American women’s team is ranked #1 in the world and has won the last _four_ Olympic gold medals in a row.”

The guys raised their hands in defeat. “My bad, chief,” one of them responded.

Logan stood up beside Abby, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “No need to get fired up, Stevenson,” he murmured soothingly. “Especially when you’re wearing Germany team gear – it’s not a good look.”

She sighed. “I just hate it when guys think girls know nothing about sports, except which players are the best-looking,” she grumbled, reluctantly sitting down again. She readily accepted Logan’s offer of another beer, however, and let the impetus of anger melt away as the World Cup game wound down.

The American fans in the crowd were disappointed with the 0-1 result in Germany’s favor, but were heartened when told by the ESPN commentators that they’d advanced to the knockout rounds anyway. The majority of the crowd left in good spirits, and Abby did her level best not to be too much of a sore winner, and rub it in that Germany had topped the group _and_ won the battle against their former manager.

Logan and Abby were among the last to leave. Abby did a little jig when they walked out of the bar, her fake-flower crown falling askew as she bounced around in tipsy glee.

“I gotta hand it to you, Stevenson,” Logan mused as he watched her dance around. “You managed to escape unscathed, even dressed in that get-up.”

Abby waved her football scarf over her head as she neared her companion, and then wrapped it around his shoulders. “You’ll learn soon enough, dear Logan,” she informed him happily. “I _always_ pick the winners.”

“Hasn’t Germany lost the last five World Cups in a row, though?” he commented with a smile.

Abby plucked her flower crown from her head and set it down on his. “Watch yourself, Bruno,” she teased with a knowing look, “or you may be sleeping on the sofa again.”

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to nuzzle her neck. “You gonna take up with that German goalkeeper?” 

“I just might,” she declared archly, before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “After all, I have a thing for blondes!”


End file.
